


Rejoice In Thy Altered Face

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Can't Swap Back, Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Post-Canon, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 12:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19790824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: The angel and the demon think they've outsmarted Heaven and Hell, but when they go to switch their bodies back, something goes wrong.





	Rejoice In Thy Altered Face

“Right. Anyone looking?” Aziraphale asked anxiously.

Crowley looked around, making doubly sure before replying, “Nobody.” He offered his hand to the angel beside him. It was still odd to see his own face looking back, Aziraphale’s rather pinched expression changing it. “Right. Swap back, then?”

They shook hands, Crowley bracing for the odd melting sensation he’d experienced during the initial changeover.

Nothing happened.

He blinked at himself, wondering if Aziraphale was blinking back behind his glasses. _His_ glasses, dammit.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s anxiety sounded strange in the demon’s voice; the sound exacerbated the shiver of fear running down him.

“Did we do something different?” Crowley asked. “Last time, was there something…”

“I don’t believe so,” Aziraphale replied. He looked down at himself as though to check. “What should we do?”

“The book,” Crowley said, putting more confidence in his voice than he actually felt. “We need to talk to the girl with the book.”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale nodded, Crowley’s hair bobbing gently with the action.

The drive back to Tadfield was strained, Crowley thought. It was difficult enough trying to drive with Aziraphale’s ridiculously short legs, but the angel’s anxious fidgeting was distracting beyond belief.

“How did you know?” Crowley asked all of a sudden.

“How did I know what?” Aziraphale answered, just an edge of irritation in his question.

“That it was the last prophesy?” Crowley said, overtaking a lorry with barely a hair’s breadth of room. “You said it was the last one.”

“Well, it said, ‘When all is said and done,’” Aziraphale replied, frowning.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t another one somewhere,” Crowley grumbled. This was stressful, and despite his ridiculous blonde hair and bowtie, he was a demon. He was allowed to be grumpy.

They sank into silence until the Bentley screeched to a halt outside Anathema’s cottage.

“Anathema!” Crowley shouted unceremoniously, leaving Aziraphale to follow him out of the car. “Anathema!”

It took rather a long time for them to answer the door, Newt still buttoning his shirt, by which time Crowley’s throat was starting to hurt from the shouting.

“Alright, alright,” she answered, blinking at them. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Where’s the book?” Crowley asked. “The book, you know the one, we need it.”

“It’s gone,” the witch replied. She frowned. “Hang on, you sound different...”

“Gone?” Crowley fairly shouted. He turned away in despair, hands gripping Aziraphale’s short hair.

“Ah,” Aziraphale stepped forward with an apologetic smile on Crowley’s face. It looked disturbing, the demon thought distractedly. Since when had he apologised for anything? “We were wondering if you remember the last prophesy from the book, by any chance?”

“I spent more time memorising that book than anything else in my whole life,” Anathema retorted. “Of course I know it.” She took a deep breath. “The last prophesy was number 5004. ‘When all is said and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire.’”

She looked at them expectantly.

“Ah, I see,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt those anxious eyes on him before the angel went on, “There’s no chance you…forgot one?”

“Forgot one?” Anathema asked, askance.

“Just a little one, on the back page maybe?”

“There is no chance,” Anathema said.

“So Agnes said nothing about what happens after Armageddon,” Crowley asked, still pacing, barely holding his frustration and disappointment in. “Nothing, she just looked into the future up to here and then,” he waved one hand in the air, “stopped.”

Anathema and Newt shared a glance. “Well, not exactly,” Anathema replied.

“There was another book,” Newt added.

“Another book?” Crowley repeated. “Well, where is it?”

The witch shrugged. “I burned it.”

“You burned it?!” Crowley repeated again, incredulous. “What’d you go and do that for?”

“She doesn’t want to do it anymore,” Newt said defensively. “Agnes didn’t ask us if we wanted to know, and we didn’t. So it’s gone.”

Crowley flexed, wondering if hitting this stupid human would feel as good as he was imagining.

“It’s down in the field,” Anathema said. “If Agnes really wanted you to know something, some of it will have survived the fire.”

“What?” Aziraphale said, confusion in his voice.

Newt shrugged. “Just go with it,” he said. “It’s easier.”

“Which way to the field?” Crowley asked. When Anathema pointed, he turned and strode away, vaguely hearing the angel thank the humans before hurrying to follow.

“Can’t believe they burnt it,” Crowley grumbled. He was having to walk a whole lot faster with these shorter legs; no wonder Aziraphale was always a little out of breath. Ridiculous, these corporeal bodies.

“There,” Aziraphale pointed, the tendril of smoke from a pile of ash marking the spot.

They strode over, neither talking, a sudden tension in the air. What if they didn’t find anything? What if there was no answer to this and they were stuck in the wrong bodies forever?

“Here,” Crowley said, relief flooding his voice as a scrap of parchment revealed itself. He brushed the ash off, nervous. The scrap fluttered as his hand shook.

“Allow me,” Aziraphale murmured, long fingers taking the parchment. He cleared his throat. “’Prophesy number one,’” he glanced at Crowley, “’Resign thyself to thy fate, to live in each other forever, and ye shall rejoice in thy altered face.’”

Absolute silence.

“Read it again,” Crowley whispered. The second reading did not change the words; he snatched the parchment back, desperately scanning it. “Where’s the rest? What does that even mean?”

“Perhaps we should ask Anathema,” Aziraphale suggested. “She has been studying Agnes’ words longer than we have.”

Crowley stared for a second, debating whether to shout or not. In the end he nodded once and followed Aziraphale in somewhat of a daze.

“I have no idea,” Anathema said as they stood in her kitchen. She’d read the paper several times, Newt peering over her shoulder. “But if you found it in the ashes, it’s almost certainly for you.”

“How do you know that?” Crowley asked.

Anathema and Newt shared a glance. “She has a way of making sure the right people see the right prophesy,” Newt said with a slight smile.

“Right, so pretty much if we ‘resign ourselves’, we’ll be happy like this?” Crowley snarled.

Anathema blinked. “What do you mean?” She turned to Crowley. “He’s been very…shouty today. I thought angels were more,” she waved one hand.

“Angelic?” Aziraphale replied dryly.

“Well, yes,” Anathema said.

“I’m the angel,” Aziraphale said, the words sounding strange coming from Crowley’s throat. _He’s inside my body._ He almost shuddered at the implication. “We temporarily swapped bodies but there were some issues switching back and we appear to be stuck like this.”

Crowley growled, entirely dissatisfied with how un-demon-like it sounded. The bowtie definitely constricted his throat. How did Aziraphale even live like this?

“Ah,” Anathema said. “Choose your face wisely.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale murmured. He sighed. “You really don’t have any idea what Agnes might mean?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Anathema replied. “But if I have any ideas I’ll let you know.”

Aziraphale left her with one of his cards – taken from his own waistcoat pocket – before ushering Crowley out. “Come on,” he said, snatching the keys out of the demon’s hand. Well, his own hand, but it was operated by the demon at the moment. “We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk?” Crowley said, his disgust at the idea shining brightly through in his tone.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Surely there are tea rooms in this village.”

Crowley grumbled on. Aziraphale was walking like an angel on a mission, and the long strides were still difficult to match with his short legs.

“Right, I may have an idea,” Aziraphale said when they were seated in the tiny tea rooms.

“Let’s have it, then,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave him a reproving look, pouring tea carefully into two cups and pointedly passing the scones.

Crowley rolled his eyes and took a scone. “Well?” he asked. The steam from the hot pastry was nicer than he would ever admit to the angel.

“Right, well, it’s not fully formed,” Aziraphale said, spreading butter carefully to the edges of the scone before adding a liberal swathe of jam. “But I was wondering if Agnes knew us better than we care to admit.”

Crowley stared back, mouth full of scone. “What?” he mumbled. Chewing quickly, he swallowed and added, “Seriously, angel, you’d better get on with it.”

“Or what?” Aziraphale shot back in a rare show of impatience. “You’re hardly going to leave.”

“I might,” Crowley said defiantly.

Aziraphale’s frown softened, drawing Crowley’s face into a more empathetic expression than he realised it could even form.

“You won’t,” Aziraphale said calmly. He sounded…something good. Crowley couldn’t really remember anyone directing a fond comment at him in millenia, but he thought he might have just heard it.

“How do you know that?” the demon asked. He hoped his expression was defiant, but he wasn’t sure Aziraphale’s eyebrow knew how to do the thing he’d spent decades mastering so it was probably not quite right.

“I know you,” Aziraphale said. “We’ve known each other since the beginning, and the last whole day we’ve spent in each other’s bodies.” He smiled a little, and Crowley knew for certain he had no idea the alternative meaning of that phrase.

Aziraphale touch the napkin to each side of his mouth in an action that was so much him and so little Crowley it was remarkable. He managed to be entirely himself, even with Crowley’s face. “I think,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “Agnes wanted us to admit that we are…fond of each other.”

“Fond?” Crowley repeated, ignoring his own use of the word only moments ago.

“Yes,” Aziraphale went on determinedly. “Humans have this idea that people they love ‘live’ in each other’s hearts. That could be what she means. Less literal than we were thinking, but then she was human.”

Crowley knew he looked sceptical.

“We’ve had our arguments, Crowley, but there was the agreement, and you did rescue me a number of times.”

“It wasn’t that many,” Crowley protested.

“Seven,” Aziraphale said immediately. “Shall I list them, or may I continue?”

“Alright, get on with it,” Crowley said.

“Anathema knows Agnes better than anyone, and she said we would find the last prophesy,” Aziraphale said. “And we did. I think Agnes meant that we should admit that we are fond of each other, and that we would prefer to remain involved in each other’s lives. And if we do that,” Aziraphale continued, ignoring Crowley’s sputtering denials, “it won’t matter so much that we’re stuck this way. Perhaps our minds will find peace in the idea. Or something.”

“What, and we’ll ‘rejoice in our altered face’?” Crowley said, sarcastically quoting the prophesy.

“I believe so, yes,” Aziraphale said, his face earnest.

“Doubtful,” Crowley said. His heart was hammering. When _had_ the angel decided to turn it on? It was extremely irritating, and right now he was trying to figure out how likely it was that Aziraphale was right. And if he was, could Crowley actually find the words to describe their relationship?

“Oh, come on, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” Crowley said. “But not here.” He glanced around. “Walls have ears.”

They stepped out of the tearooms and walked out into the woods until the village was no longer visible.

“Trees have ears, I recall you saying,” Aziraphale said, smiling nervously.

“Yeah,” Crowley replied. He remembered the conversation. Asking the angel for holy water had not been easy, and he’d not been surprised at the initial rejection. What else would his angel do? There was always some cajoling required before he’d get his way. The disappointment on his face, though, when he thought Crowley was going to destroy himself…that had been unexpected. It had taken him decades to try and work out what that meant, and he still wasn’t sure he had it right.

“I’ll go first, will I?” Aziraphale said.

“Fine,” Crowley said.

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, and cleared his throat. “Crowley, we have been friends for a long time. Since the beginning, in fact, and although I have denied it on occasion, in my fear of what Heaven might do to me, and Hell to you, you have become quite dear to me. And if the Earth is destined to continue for a period of time, I would very much like us to remain in contact.”

Crowley listened, barely able to believe what the angel was saying. His brain was working fast, and it latched onto one detail in particular.

“You feared what Hell would do to me?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. He frowned. “Why do you think I said…what I said…in the bandstand that day? I didn’t want you to be punished any more than I wanted to be punished. And as you said yourself, Hell doesn’t send rude notes.”

Crowley stared. “The Bastille,” he said.

“1793,” Aziraphale replied. “You came to save me, if I recall.”

“I was in the area,” Crowley replied.

“I thought you said it wasn’t your idea?” Aziraphale replied.

“No, but they thought it was,” Crowley said. “Had to be seen around there, didn’t I?”

“But you still rescued me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley winced. “Might have done.”

“Why?” Aziraphale said, and Crawley knew this was his moment.

“Well,” the demon hedged, looking away.

It wasn’t the looking away that was his undoing, but the glance back.

Even on his face, Aziraphale’s hopeful expression was clear. He remembered it from the Globe theatre most strongly; the angel had loved that stupid play, but Crowley had miracled it into a hit. Possibly he had been influenced by his slight guilt at faking the coin toss. Possibly.

“Earth would have been boring without you,” Crowley blurted. “Who knew who they would have sent to replace you?” He snorted, hoping it was convincing. “Someone who actually did their job, who made me actually do mine.” He glanced sideways, noting the soft smile now on his own face, and realising he could see Aziraphale in it now. “Someone who wouldn’t buy me lunch,” he continued, “or make me watch terrible magic tricks.”

“They’re not terrible,” Aziraphale protested.

“They’re a little bit terrible,” Crowley replied, but there was a smile behind the words. “I would have missed you.”

Aziraphale’s smile blossomed until it covered his whole face, eyes crinkling at the edges the way Crowley remembered. Without speaking, the angel stepped forward, arms coming around the demon’s body in a warm embrace. Crowley resisted at first, but relaxed as he heard Aziraphale whisper to him.

“I would have missed you. Terribly so.”

With a sigh, Crowley slid his own arms around the slim waist in front of him. They stood together, a warm sensation swirling through him. After a while, Crowley thought he could feel Aziraphale’s linen jacket under his fingers. Perhaps it didn’t matter so much which bodies they inhabited, he thought. He could still see Aziraphale – his celestial self-shone through either way. I could get used to it, he thought to himself. If I had to.

After a long moment – Crowley had no idea how long, not that Earth time mattered a lot to a demon and an angel – they stepped back.

Crowley blinked, looking into Aziraphale’s blue eyes. They were crinkled around the edges, just as he had remembered, but now they were set in a round, kind face set above a tartan bowtie.

“We’re back,” the demon whispered.

“We are,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley blinked again, then reached up to remove his glasses. Aziraphale didn’t blink at his yellow eyes; his face was even more angelic than Crowley could remember. Beautiful. It was beautiful.

“You look different,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Being you _was_ different,” Crowley replied. He hesitated. “Is it a good different?”

Aziraphale’s smile broadened again, and he repeated the prophesy once more.

“Resign thyself to thy fate, to live in each other forever, and ye shall rejoice in thy altered face.”


End file.
